Chapter 48
October, 1177
Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd
It was like Robert Bolsover and Chester castle all over again. Once more, Haworth was the one who was left.
He wasn’t certain how many days had passed since Ralph de Vire’s cloak-draped corpse had come to stand before him. He remembered little of that day, just his triumph over Longsword and his subsequent feeling that his good fortune would surely hold and de Vire would be the first to ride through the gate. That honor, however, had gone to Haworth; Hugh had embraced him in welcome, all the while thinking of de Vire, and Roger had been speaking, trying to tell him something, but he hadn’t paid any attention, just smiled and patted him on the back, ready to greet the next man, to get to de Vire…He would never forget the noise that roared through his ears when Ralph’s horse and its burden stopped in front of him and his worst fear was stark reality.
He withdrew from society at Hawarden. He didn’t care what was happening; he didn’t care who was giving the orders. Haworth was the only one who dared to see him but what he reported during those visits Hugh couldn’t have repeated.
The days grew thankfully shorter. He spent more time in bed, sleeping fitfully and drifting in and out of terrifying nightmares. Despite his welcome of the long nights, he discovered he needed to have his chambers lit at all times…he had the expensive tapestries removed and the grey walls whitewashed so that the light from his lamps reverberated four-fold…
Roger brought him his meals and although he was never very hungry, he ate what he could because the man looked so stricken and solicitous it would have been rude not to. As he ate, Haworth would chatter on and on, tunelessly; the words rarely penetrating the fog around his mind…Poor Haworth; he always tried so hard, but then, that was part of the problem.
Once or twice, Hugh felt sharper. He would attempt to pay attention to Haworth’s blathering about some war or other, nodding as if he understood his captain’s difficulties. He may have even responded; he didn’t remember.
And then one day, in the midst of his forced cheerful, inane talk, Haworth suddenly stopped. Hugh only noticed because Haworth’s voice was loud. He glanced up to find his man staring at him, his expression worried and fearful. This was also puzzling because Haworth’s face was generally so dour, Hugh had long ago imagined any other emotion was impossible.
“My lord,” Haworth said in a low voice, “do you wish to reproach me…” He paused but Hugh merely frowned, not understanding the question. He swallowed. “Do you wish to reproach me over Sir Ralph’s death?”
To hear the words out loud was as bad a shock as seeing the corpse. For a moment, Hugh could do nothing more than stare stupidly at Haworth.
“You have every right, of course, my lord,” Haworth continued quickly, as if anticipating an explosion and wishing to explain his side of the story before it happened. “You sent me on a mission and I failed. We were caught unaware by the—”
“I don’t understand,” Hugh interrupted. “Why should I reproach you? Did I ask you to save his life? Was it you who killed him?”
Haworth was horrified. “My lord, no! Never!”
“Then why should I reproach you?” he repeated.
“You asked me to find him—”
“I remember what I said, Roger. I asked you to find him and you evidently did. Too late, but that wasn’t your fault.” He turned his head to look into the flames of the small blaze in the brazier. The weather had grown chillier as the days had shortened but it seemed to him that he was always cold lately and when he wasn’t lying in bed, he sat in front of the fire. “I reproach myself…” he whispered.
“My lord, why?”
Hugh glanced at him and the ghost of a smile appeared briefly on his face. “You sound genuinely outraged, Roger. Are you just being polite or do you honestly not realize?”
“Not realize what, my lord?”
“You argued against confrontation with the Bastard, didn’t you? You wanted to go after Gruffudd, instead. But I insisted on revenge and because of it, Ralph is dead. It’s not your fault, it’s not the fault of the Welsh or even of William Longsword. It’s my fault alone. That poor boy…” He rubbed his hands over his eyes and then shook his head as if trying to toss out the bitter thoughts and looked squarely at Haworth. The blue eyes were sharp with anger. “I reproach myself,” he repeated firmly. “Some days I rage against myself, Roger; I berate myself, I curse my vanity, I punch the walls and other days, I—” he broke off abruptly and closed his eyes. His voice dropped. “Other days, I plot my death.”
Haworth rushed to his side and dropped onto his knees by his chair. “My lord, you shouldn’t talk like this! It isn’t right! It’s a sin!”
Hugh smiled wryly, reflexively. “It’s a sin only if you actually do it, Roger.” He reached out and put his hand on Haworth’s shoulder. “Never fear; I won’t.”
“Please let me help you, my lord,” Haworth said in a low, fervent voice. “I’ll do anything, I swear it! Whatever you want! I’ve helped you before…”
Hugh dropped his hand and turned his face away, feeling suddenly flushed. The room was stifling and it was hard to breathe…Was it always going to be like this? Was it always Haworth who’d be there to pick up the pieces and put his life back together after every tragedy? He wasn’t certain which was worse: the terrible events of the last few years or Haworth’s unfailing presence.
“My lord, perhaps if you were to lead us tomorrow…” Haworth suggested tentatively. “It will do you good to get out and back to business. You’ve already lost most of the color you had this summer…And the men will be pleased to see you.”
For a moment, the span of time a heavy cloud cover might break apart to reveal a brief, blazing, hopeful glimpse of the bright sun, he was actually tempted to accept. But a picture of how injured Ralph de Vire’s face might look if he were to associate with Roger of Haworth so soon after the former’s death, darkened his mind and he slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so, Roger,” he said. “I don’t want to get in your way.”
“You wouldn’t! My lord, you haven’t been on a horse in nearly a month!”
Hugh smiled indifferently, the malaise reclaiming him. The rest of Haworth’s pleas and exhortations sounded like some distant, indistinct rumbling to which he paid no further attention. Instead, he focused again on the fire. The prophetic words Eleanor had uttered when he’d accused her of carrying a bastard’s bastard came suddenly to him. She’d promised him he would pay dearly for every wrong he’d done her. But it seemed Hell wasn’t waiting until he died for its due.
Haworth claimed that every order he gave came directly from the earl. It wasn’t that he thought the men wouldn’t do his bidding without this veneer of authority, he simply believed that an outward display of Hugh’s interest in their activities would keep up their morale and stifle the continually sprouting rumors about his ill-health. He was convinced that the ruse worked. Privately, however, he worried about the earl’s state of mind. He didn’t know how many more disasters Hugh could weather; each one seemed to leave him more vulnerable to the next. Even during the dark months after Robert Bolsover’s death, Hugh had never mentioned suicide, nor had he shut himself away in his chambers. Or perhaps Ralph de Vire had had more charm than Haworth had believed. While another man might have been jealous of de Vire’s lingering presence, the idea never crossed Haworth’s unimaginative mind. After all, de Vire was dead and he was alive. Eventually Hugh would recover his senses and he’d find Haworth, loyal, steady and patient, right where he’d left him.
As the days, then weeks, passed with no apparent change in the earl’s behavior, Haworth began to acknowledge a nobler side in what he’d done. He didn’t understand how Hugh could have formed so deep an attachment with de Vire in a relatively short time and considered such an irrational occurrence proof that the affair had been an example of dangerous obsession and that he’d been right to eliminate it before serious harm had been done.
Hugh rece
ived periodic letters from his mother informing him of his daughter’s progress, which was apparently steady, but even these failed to spark his interest. He had never seen the girl and therefore could take no pleasure in her activities. The dowager countess’ obvious enjoyment of the company of her grandchild did have one benefit to him, apart from sparing him the necessity of finding another home for the girl: there were no further complaints about his inability to regain the lost earldoms. Haworth was glad of this one small favor. He was always present when the messenger read the letters aloud to Hugh, who would not stir himself even to read them himself, and ready to shut the man up if the contents drifted toward the old and overly familiar criticisms.
The feast of Christmas was, curiously enough given the circumstances, a pleasant time. It was almost as if the inhabitants of Hawarden had forgotten all about their lord, who by now had not been seen by most of them in four months. The steward, on Haworth’s instructions, had arranged for musicians and entertainers to be sent over from Chester, new clothing was distributed, the castle scrubbed and whitewashed and everyone lingered at the table. All was done in the earl’s name.
Haworth discovered he had an aptitude for administration and something more—he enjoyed it. Soldiers or laborers would come to him with petitions and quarrels and dutifully he would relate them all to Hugh. Hugh’s lack of response, however, meant that Haworth would have to make the decisions himself, although he passed them off as Hugh’s, and after a short time he found he was comfortable with this role. He had always done Hugh’s bidding—indeed, had never wanted to do anything else—but he’d certainly been with the earl long enough to have learned how to confront most situations. What he lacked in imagination and quick-wittedness, he made up with fairness and common sense. Despite his unsmiling demeanor, he’d always been respected by the garrison; by the end of the year, he was well-regarded by everyone at Hawarden.
One day in late January, he thumped with uncharacteristic agitation on the door to Hugh’s outer chamber and went inside without waiting for a response. He found the earl in his usual place, seated before the brazier and staring senselessly into its fiery heart. Hugh did not look up at Haworth’s approach, nor did he seem to realize there was another person in the room. Despite his excitement, Haworth halted abruptly, his spirits sinking and his pity rising as he watched his master.
Hugh’s physical appearance had changed dramatically as a result of his self-enforced exile. His once russet hair was now almost completely grey, his beard sparse and his face drawn and sallow. He had lost so much weight that his posture was hunched and his movements slow like those of an old man. But it was the lack of response in his eyes which bothered Haworth most of all; there was no spark of life in them, nothing to indicate that something yet lived in his body.
“My lord,” he said softly, standing next to the brazier, “a messenger from Normandy arrived not long ago. You have a son, my lord! Healthy and strong, your steward at Blundeville says!”
He paused and waited for anything in Hugh’s expression to shift and was disappointed. He wondered if this lassitude was his fault; if he should have insisted months ago that Hugh set aside his grief and force himself to participate in normal activities.
“My lord, did you hear me?” he said more loudly. “A son…Your line is secure. Hugh—”
“I heard you,” the earl answered.
“Aren’t you pleased? After all you endured with that woman and her brother—it finally paid off—”
A frown crossed Hugh’s sickly face. “Please, Roger, let’s not speak of the Bolsovers…I’m too weak.”
“What about your son? Will I send the messenger back with instructions to bring the child here?”
To Haworth’s surprise, the earl’s head snapped up and there was suddenly and unexpectedly strong emotion in his eyes. Horror. “No!” he said forcefully. “Let him remain where he is! Both of them!”
Haworth knelt down before Hugh. “You have something to live for now, my lord,” he said in a quiet voice.
The earl laughed harshly. “Do I? It seems to me I’ve done my work, Roger! If I die now, there will be a new earl.”
“An infant in the hands of the king, my lord? As you were once? Do you truly want that for your son?” When Hugh didn’t answer, Haworth continued, “You must raise him, my lord, not that cursed house of Anjou.”
“No, no, no…” Hugh whispered.
“Yes, my lord,” Haworth said firmly. He reached out and gripped Hugh’s shoulders. He was shocked for a moment by the bony, almost fragile feeling beneath his fingers. Hugh made no resistance. “You must live! If only to have your revenge against William Longsword!”
“I don’t care about the Bastard any longer, Roger. He got the better of me…It’s over between us.”
“Then you don’t care that he murdered Ralph de Vire…?”
Hugh’s posture stiffened. He turned his tortured face towards Haworth’s, less than a hand-span away. “Murdered?” he echoed hoarsely.
“I didn’t want to tell you, my lord,” the other man said. “I never wanted to tell you because I feared your reaction. I thought the birth of your son would revive your spirits but you seem bent on withering away until there’s nothing left of you. Perhaps the idea of revenge might stir your blood instead.”
“Tell me, Roger!”
Haworth dropped his hands and leaned back on his heels. His bearded face was composed, his eyes serious. “My lord, Sir Ralph’s awful death was the result of his poor timing and the sudden appearance of a dozen or so soldiers from Rhuddlan,” he started. “The moment I left you, I went in search of him and found him in a clearing, engaged with one of the Bastard’s men. They were duelling and, between blows, calling out to each other with taunts. It was obvious they knew each other. I was loathe to interfere, my lord—Sir Ralph would not have appreciated it and probably would have complained to you that I’d made him look a fool. If I had thought he was in mortal danger—if for one moment I had conceived he was ill-prepared for the match—I would have certainly intervened, but I swear to you, my lord,” he said earnestly, “he was the better of the two and I had no such apprehensions.”
“Then what the hell happened?” Hugh’s voice was tight with frustration and bewilderment.
“He fell. He took an unlucky step backwards, tripped over a tree root and fell. He lost his sword.”
“And his opponent—the Bastard’s man—murdered him in cold blood?”
“No, my lord! I would never have let that happen!” Haworth protested. “Of course, I immediately jumped down from my mount and challenged the Bastard’s knight, if only to divert attention from Sir Ralph. The tactic worked—the man turned to me and we began fighting. After a short bout, I gave him a wound which proved mortal, and it was at that moment that the Bastard and a dozen or so of his guards galloped like maniacs into the clearing. I was so outnumbered that when Sir Richard demanded my sword, I surrendered it. Sir Ralph…he didn’t want to surrender, my lord.”
Hugh leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair and covered his face with a hand. He was very still.
Haworth knew the worst thing he could do would be to make de Vire’s fictitious role seem anything less than heroic; he had to walk the line between keeping the lie manageable and raising the young knight beyond mere competence. “He held his sword out,” Haworth continued, “and shouted that he would take on the lot of them. The Bastard sent four men to subdue him. It wasn’t an easy procedure and he nearly killed two of them but ultimately he was brought before Lord William.”
He paused and peered uncertainly at Hugh, but the latter did not move. He cleared his throat. “Well…the Bastard began to shout at Sir Ralph, demanding to know how he had dared betray Rhuddlan—and him—by joining your service. But he never allowed Sir Ralph to answer! He went on and on…it almost seemed he was a bit mad, my lord; it made me nervous because I’d already given up my sword. Finally the Bastard stopped to draw breath. Sir Ralph started to defend himself but
whatever he said just made the Bastard angrier until he pulled his own sword and brandished it in front of Sir Ralph’s nose. I shouted over to him to behave in an honorable way and Sir Richard begged him not to do anything foolish, that you were sure to pay a high ransom for the two of us. But, my lord, as I said, it was as if he’d gone mad. He shouted out that traitors should all die together and then he…he rushed straight at Sir Ralph and stabbed him in the stomach. Sir Ralph never had a chance. It was brutal, deliberate murder, my lord, and although I admit I had no love for the man, he didn’t deserve to die like that…”